


On The Line

by Ryuchu



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 23:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16129301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuchu/pseuds/Ryuchu
Summary: Mishima likes to pretend it's Kurusu on the other end of the line and not just some unknown man who works at a sex line.[Written for the Shumi R18 'I'll Never Forget You' anthology]





	On The Line

**Author's Note:**

> I still exist. Maybe.

The flyer in Mishima’s hands was careworn, once crisp edges worn ragged by sweaty, nervous palms. He stared down at the paper, his eyes no longer even registering the scantily clad woman trying impossibly hard to look sexy while holding an outdated red telephone in her hand. Instead, his sight settled on the telephone number written in plain, unassuming white numbers near the bottom.

Not that he really needed to look at it any more.

He had it practically memorized at this point.

Guilt ran through him like a flash of white hot lightning as he quickly folded the paper and shoved it back into the drawer of his nightstand. He self-consciously wiped his palms against his khakis and scrambled awkwardly onto his bed, pulling his phone from his pocket in one swift, guilt-charged burst of frenetic energy. Muscle memory took over and he found himself pulling up the Phan-Site, his fingers immediately leading him to the forums. However, the speed of his scrolling betrayed that he wasn’t really reading any of it.

Another Friday, another repetition of this little weekly ritual.

He knew in a part of his gut that he was trying (and failing) valiantly to ignore that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself this week either. He had the willpower to prolong the charade a bit longer, but eventually his fingers would betray him.

He’d close out of his internet browser and start dialing that number.

And once more he would come back to Joker.

Mishima stopped mid-swipe, his phone screen grinding to a halt as his entire body seemed to tense. He was waiting for something. A fix he shouldn't have chased, a fix he should have tossed aside and forgotten. Despite his intense internal battle, his acute auditory memory was quick to supply the hit he was trying to deny himself, the memory of a voice suddenly buzzing everywhere in his skull.

A singular voice, but an absolute cacophony of pleasure.

_“You’re a good boy. Such a good, good boy…”_

Despite it being a cheap imitation of the real thing, he felt his breath catch and goosebumps flare across his skin like a rash. Slowly and woodenly, as if he were a marionette dancing on the strings of someone else’s whims, he sat up in bed, his phone screen now black from inactivity and his head still drowning in memories of that voice.

_“Just do what I tell you...it’ll feel good…I promise...”_

The shiver that ran through him manifested itself as a full body shake. With only the slightest hesitation, he pulled his shirt over his head, those unseen puppeteer hands exaggerating his movements for an audience that didn’t exist. As he began to fumble with his pants, his hands almost absentmindedly prodding at his hip bones, he found a name tumbling from his lips.

“Kurusu…”

_“Good boy...just like that...don’t stop…”_

The memory playing in his ears wasn’t Kurusu, it was Joker, the host he kept requesting. He knew that, but their voices were so close to one another. With the slightest twist of timber, the slightest adjustment of pitch, the slightest leveling of tone, it was as if Kurusu was the one whispering in his ear; it was as if Kurusu was the one praising him, encouraging him to push his pleasure further.

It was as if Akira was in love with him.

A fantasy. An absolutely unattainable dream. A thought that could only be acknowledged and given solid form once a week in the quiet darkness of his own bedroom using the voice of someone that wasn’t him. He could never admit it aloud because he knew. He knew Kurusu would laugh, mock him, hate him, be disgusted by him - the kindness in his voice would sour, tainting all the sweet memories that came before. If there was one thing he _had_ to do right in this friendship - one thing he couldn’t mess up - it was making sure he never found out how he felt.

But the longer it went on, the more impossible it seemed. Too many times he had let himself be dragged too deep by the siren song that was Kurusu’s voice, his feelings almost breaking through his carefully constructed dam. Just once. He wanted to try saying it just once.

“Akira...I love you…”

A hundred times. A thousand times. A million times. Every day for the rest of his life.

But he couldn’t. He never could. He would ruin everything.

Mishima finally managed to get his pants off, leaving him in only his boxers. This time when he picked up his cellphone, there wasn’t any hesitation, his fingers tapping out the number in a practiced, desperate rhythm.

The voice that greeted him on the other end of the line was a familiar one, Lala, the owner and operator of Crossroads of Heaven. Despite the number of times he had made this call, his voice still shook when he gave his name and customer number: Nishima, #2405. As she repeated it back, Mishima felt the lump in his throat grow even more restrictive. A part of him wished the fake name he had given during his first call had been something cool and mysterious, or at least something not so painfully close to his real name.

But it was so easy to twist “Nishima” into “Mishima” instead; a tiny shift separating fantasy from reality.

_“Nishima...Nishima…”_

He barely heard Lala asking him to confirm his information, barely registered himself giving any form of response, his head and ears swimming with deafening anticipation. It took only a few seconds for Lala to speak the key phrase Mishima had been chasing after all week:

“I’m sending you to Joker now.”

A moment of silence as the line transferred; a perfect little pocket of absolute purgatory as he waited. He used to wonder in these brief seconds if today would be the day he chickened out and hung up before the line could connect. Now he knew better. If he made it this close, there was no chance of turning back.

With a gentle click, the ringing cut off abruptly. Mishima felt his breath catch, his ears attempting to strain themselves beyond human limits. A memory wasn’t good enough any longer. He needed the real thing. He needed him.

“Hello Nishima. It’s good to hear from you again.”

For a split second, it was as if everything froze, the fire that coursed through Mishima’s brain robbing him of any connection to reality. The only thing that existed was his voice - real, tangible, not an illusion created by his own mind. With a shaky, shuddering breath, he returned to himself, the aftershock of hearing his voice turning both his body and mind against his carefully maintained dam of logic.

“Y-Yeah,” He finally responded, the shake in his voice betraying how strongly this was impacting him, “It’s good to hear from you again too.”

“You did call to request me, so it only makes sense that we’re talking now,” Joker replied with a slight chuckle, “I’m the one that never has any assurances if you’ll call again.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess that’s how this kinda works, sorry,” Mishima apologized instantly, his body suddenly flushing with embarrassment.

Although he had grown accustomed to these conversations before the session began, he still found himself tripping over them. When they were speaking casually, his voice mirrored Akira’s too closely; Mishima had to constantly remind himself that no, this wasn’t him. The feelings of love that pounded against his ribs every time he spoke was meant for someone else.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Joker soothed, his tone dipping to something more gentle that pulled Mishima’s eyes closed as he leaned into the phone, hanging on every word, “I’m just happy you’re back. I missed you.”

It wasn’t fair how he made that sound genuine, his voice low and sincere; it wasn’t fair that a canned response he likely gave to every client made his heart jump and stutter like this.

It wasn’t fair that Akira would never say that to him.

Too real. Too much. Too close.

“...I missed you too. I missed you so much...you’ve been so busy recently...” Mishima replied, surprising even himself with how easily his genuine sincerity matched Joker’s manufactured one, “I’m happy to talk to you again, Akira.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line followed by a sudden silence. Mishima’s eyes snapped open, panic immediately drowning his mind and body, killing the warmth that had been blooming in his chest. In an attempt to backpedal whatever had upset Joker, he tried furiously to recall what he had just said, but all his mind seemed prepared to give his was intoxicating memories of Joker’s voice. Did he say something wrong?

“I-I’m sorry. That was too much, right? You’re just doing your job and here I am saying stupid stuff like that. Sorry.”

“N-No, it’s fine,” Joker responded, his stuttering something new and yet ringing oddly familiar in Mishima’s ears, “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I just...Mi-”

PI PI PI

The sharp sound of the timer signaling the official start of their session cut off whatever Joker had been about to say. There was a several second pause as if he were debating something with himself; Mishima assumed it was if he should hang up on him or not. But instead of the cold, metallic sound of a dead line that he surely deserved, Joker began to speak again.

“You know what that means, Nishima. Now you're going to be a good boy and listen to me.”

The conversation from mere seconds ago seemed a lifetime away as Joker's voice dipped into that husky, dangerous tone that made Mishima's ears ring. All his doubts and insecurities evaporated in an instant, his mind flush with nothing but Joker. Once more moving on strings of his unacknowledged whims, he set the call to speakerphone and placed his phone on his pillow as he laid down in bed. The blankets seemed to scratch at his skin, all of his senses suddenly on high alert, expectation singing in his veins.

Every syllable Joker had just spoken reverberated enticingly in his ears, never quite disappearing, but unable to replicate the hot flush that ran through him every time he heard his voice. His head swam with the melody, his auditory memory teasing him with the whispered fragments of the voice he had grown increasingly and dangerously intoxicated by.

When they spoke before the session officially began, it was simple to imagine the voice on the line was Kurusu. All the tiny, insignificant facets of his voice were there – the calm lilt, the reserved tone, the quiet timber; all the details that Mishima had spent hours pouring over, fixating on. He had memorized every subtlety that would be meaningless to anyone else.

However, when his voice shifted, he became the Akira that Mishima only dared to entertain in his wildest imaginings.

Slowly, languidly, teasingly, Mishima began to trace his own fingertips in meandering strokes up and down his bare torso. His short nails scraped gently at his skin, tickling his frazzled, expectant nerves and sending sparks shooting across his skin.

“Of course, Joker,” he replied, his voice already growing tellingly breathy, “I'll do whatever you say.”

“Mmm, you really are a good boy, so just keep listening...”

His voice was an encouraging purr that made Mishima's hands stutter. The promise in his tone was all too clear. Eager to please, Mishima's hands began to move again, but the motions weren't as practiced and careful as before, his excitement already bubbling to the surface.

“That's right, listen to me...close your eyes and keep listening...”

Methodically, Mishima allowed his eyes to shut. With the cutting off of one sense, the others seemed to sharpen in response. His own fingers spent shivers running up his spine and the gentle sound of Joker’s level breathing ghosting over Mishima’s ear made his toes curl.

It was all too easy to let his imagination take over the longer he laid there gently indulging himself. His mind was dizzy with all kinds of possibilities now that his sight couldn't prove him wrong.

“What are you doing right now?”

The voice that spoke to him wasn’t Joker any longer, it was Akira.

This time, he had him pinned against the wall in the stairwell in front of the roof. It was always somewhere semi-public because Mishima knew Akira lived off the thrill of potentially getting caught, just like any good thief should. The hands planted against the wall on either side of Mishima's head brushed gently against the tips of his hair right near the base of his neck. The shiver that ran through him was obvious and the smile Akira gave in response only made Mishima's blood pump even more.

They stood there in silence, Akira's eyes behind his glasses playful, teasing, and very much aware of what Mishima was doing. But still he let the game draw out, his sight running up and down Mishima's body as his hands continued to greedily explore himself.

Mishima said nothing.

If he kept quiet, Akira would have to ask again.

“What are you doing right now, Nishima?”

The name was wrong, but he found himself unable to care. Akira's tone was quieter this time, but more pressing, more urgent.

More.

He needed to hear more.

“I'm touching myself,” he finally answered.

“A good boy would have answered the first time I asked,” a momentary, all too intentional pause, “And told me the part I really care about...”

Akira's voice was warm as he leaned down to whisper into his ear.

“Where?”

The one word sent the blood rushing from his brain to his cock instead, but he still had to find an answer.

A good boy answers the first time he’s asked.

“Just between my chest and my stomach...”

“A little foreplay, hm? Why don’t you try teasing your nipples a bit? You always make such nice noises when you do that…”

Mishima felt his face flush with the realization that Akira knew him that intimately, but he couldn’t resist the request. His hands went immediately to his nipples, his circles now small and concentrated, the uneven texture of his nails spiking his pleasure. His breathing grew ragged as he suddenly squeezed his nipples, a high pitched sound somewhere between a squeak and a moan filling the air. Again and again he repeated the action, the contrast between the sudden pain and the way it undeniably made his cock jump encouraging him to keep going.

“That’s what I like to hear…the moans of a good boy doing what I tell him to...” Akira said, his voice pulling Mishima’s eyes to look up at that glazed, pleased expression on his face, “But maybe you should let those hands go a little bit lower...it'll feel even better, I promise...”

Each word acted as a weight, pulling Mishima’s hands slowly down, the look of quiet approval on Akira's face serving as its own reward. Suddenly, Akira's hands were covering his, drawing them down to his hips before tenderly applying pressure. Mishima squirmed into the touch, desperate for more. Akira knew just how to exploit his weak points.

“Where are you touching now?”

“My...my hips...”

“You’re sensitive there, aren’t you…”

“Ye...yes...especially to- ah!”

His words were cut off as he applied pressure, his nails digging into his hips.

“Nails, right?” Akira’s tone was low, teasing.

“Y...yes...haa….”

“Sounds like you really like it, but you know where I want your hands to be. Let's try again...”

Not only did Akira’s hands once again guide him, but they also made sure his fingertips never broke contact. Pleasure prickled across the length of his hip bones until his fingers ran into the coarse hair that peeked out above his boxers. Mishima barely managed to bite back the moan bubbling on his lips.

“Feels good, doesn't it?”

The voice was playful, lilting. However, the dark undercurrent in his tone – the promise of only more pleasure to come – filled his voice with a commanding power. All too eager to answer him, Mishima hastily tore off his boxers. All the light, languid teasing he had been subjecting himself to was swallowed in the desperate need for _more_. His skin felt hot and clammy, like it was a size too tight; his hot and overly eager hands returned to his now exposed crotch, his fingers wrapping messily around his half-firm dick.

The moan that tumbled from his lips this time was a high and breathy. In response, he heard the gentle rumble of Akira's laughter. Again. He needed to hear it again.  He gave himself another quick, messy stroke, a weak moan bubbling in the back of his throat.

“Looks like you found your dick.”

Mishima tried to find words, but instead he just kept moving his hand, his cock growing harder by the second. He bucked his hips wildly, hoping to make contact with Akira, wanting the coarse feeling of his immaculate uniform pushing up against his dick. However, like every time they did this, he was given only his voice.

“Does it feel good? Does it feel good to jack off to my voice?”

Akira spoke directly in his ear, hot and tempting, demanding an answer. Mishima’s hand didn’t stop moving, each stroke spiking the pleasure prickling in his stomach to new heights. An answer. He needed an answer.. He couldn’t keep Akira waiting.

“It...it...haaaaaaa...so...so good…”

Mishima threw his head back as a moan louder than the others followed that admission. One of his hands moved to his nipple again, teasing it relentlessly, driving himself crazy. His hands were hot and sticky, his body desperate to hear more of Akira’s voice, _demanding_ that he provide it with the hit it needed.

“Please...please...please...Akira, keep talking...don’t stop...it makes me so horny...haaaaaa...fuck, it’s so good...nnn!”

“Keep going, Mishima...keep going...I want to hear you moan...I want you to cum to the sound of my voice…”

It was all too much for him. His head was a mess, the feeling of his own hands tangled messily with the sound of Akira’s voice in a  bundle that could never be seperated. Over and over his hips jumped in time with his hands, his pleasure quickly spiraling out of control as his moans grew messier and less coherent.

“Akira...ah...Akira! Haaaaaaaaa! I love you...I love you…! Fuck! Fuck! Nnnnnnn!”

“Mishima...it feels good, right…? So good, right…? Keep going...don’t stop...nnn!”

As he spoke, Akira pushed up against Mishima, the press of his uniform on Mishima’s exposed skin causing him to gasp as he once again stroked his cock. Mishima desperately wanted to kiss him, to feel those lips he had spent hours fantasizing about pressing up against his own. Instead, they once again found his ear, a few stray pieces of Akira’s hair tickling his cheeks. Instead of speaking, however, he began to do something Mishima had never heard before - he began to pant, his hips rolling into Mishima’s stomach.

“So good...Yuuki…”

Mishima felt his eyes go wide with shock as he looked to where Akira’s head rested on his shoulder. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes closed in concentration, small beads of sweat running down his forehead. Suddenly, Mishima realized that at some point Akira had unzipped his own pants and pulled down his underwear. His dick was in his hand.

He watched in stunned silence for several seconds as Akira jerked himself with frenetic, messy motions and moaned his name into his shoulder. It was something Mishima had never seen before - usually Akira insisted on Mishima being the one to get off - but to hear him like this, desperate, needy...Mishima had never felt more turned on in his life. Dazedly, he licked his lips as his hands began to move again, his pace matching Akira’s.

“Ha...Akira...does it...nnn!...feel good?” Mishima asked, his own mouth pushing up against Akira’s ear. His reward was a low, breathy moan.

“O-of course it does...I...haaaaaa….wanted to...to do this...ah! for so….long…every time you called...Yuuki...Yuuki...I love you...Yuuki...”

Akira love him, Akira loved him, Akira loved him. He was masturbating and thinking of him, looking at him, listening to him. Akira loved him, he loved Akira. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Let’s...let’s cum...together...haaaaaaa...let’s cum together….Akira…”

The only response Mishima got was another moan of his name as Akira’s hand seemed to pick up in pace and Mishima quickly did the same. Time lost all meaning as the only thing he could concentrate on was the sound of Akira moaning his name over and over and over again. Needy, desperate, horny; that voice he had spent so long fixating on existed for him and him alone.

“Fuck! Akira...I’m going to…!”

“M-Me too. It’s okay. Let’s cum together…”

With a moan louder than all the rest, Mishima threw his head back. The world seemed to spin and twist as he felt something finally uncoil, his cum suddenly coating his hand and stomach. He drew out the orgasm as long as he could, jerking his cock over and over again, until the high started to die down and he felt the sweet afterglow beginning to set in. With a content sigh, he turned onto his side, hazily mumbling Akira’s name.

He laid there with his eyes closed, listening to the mutual sound of their tired, blissful breathing. He smiled lazily to himself. This was nice.

“That was better than any of the other times...” He cooed, “Was it good for you too, Akira?”

There was no response.

In confusion, Mishima opened his eyes. However, instead of being greeted with the blissfully tired face of his boyfriend, he found himself staring at a phone. His mind began to work frantically to disassemble this logic puzzle, but nothing was adding up. They were at school, right? They were masturbating in front of each other, right? They had said they loved one another, right?

And suddenly, reality came crashing down around his head.

He wasn’t at school, he was at home in his bedroom.

He wasn’t with anyone else, he was alone.

He wasn’t talking to Akira, he was talking to Joker.

Any warm, fuzzy feelings were instantly torn to shreds. He felt his blood run cold as he stared in horror at the phone right next to his face. He tried to will his body to move - to do something _useful_ \- but instead, it was all he could do to fight back a wave of rising panic.

Akira.

He had called him Akira.

And Joker had called him Mishima.

No, more than that.

He had called him _Yuuki_.

The last name he could maybe believe was a twisting of his ears, tuning the world that slightest bit to hear what he wanted. But he had never given Joker his first name before, his paranoia that it would somehow be used against him driving him to be extra cautious. So how? How was it possible that Joker knew both his first name and last name?

It was a solution so obvious - so idiotically simple - that Mishima couldn’t even begin to believe it was true.

“Ku...rusu…?” He said slowly, wonderingly, his thoughts still reeling.

The person on the other end of the line - Joker? Kurusu? Akira? - said nothing, but Mishima clearly heard his breath hitch. For several stiff seconds, they sat there in silence. The night air around him suddenly felt cold and brittle. Hastily, he pulled a T-shirt over his still sticky body, but it did nothing to dispel the sudden chill.

“...So...we’re back to Kurusu now instead of Akira?” the voice on the other end of the line finally answered.

“W-Wait,” Mishima stuttered, his head still dizzy with too much world shattering information all at once, “You’re...you’re not serious, right…? You’re not seriously Akira Kurusu, the delinquent transfer student at Shujin Academy, right…?”

“Would you believe me at this point if I said no?”

No. He wouldn’t. That voice. It was Kurusu. There was no denying it. The timber, the pitch, the tone - now that he was no longer donning the Joker persona, there was no mistaking it. All that time spent fixating on his voice immediately reinforced what he was trying desperately to deny.

So much for not messing things up.

“...Shit,” Mishima said, all strength seeming to drain from his body as he stared at the phone laying innocently on his pillow, “Holy shit. Fuck.”

“Yeah. Same. But that...definitely just happened.”

Akira hated him. He had to. Why hadn’t he hung up already? He had spent _so long_ swallowing his feelings and now he had just blurted them out while thinking he was someone else on a goddamn sex line, of all things. The still sticky cum on his hands and stomach, the remnants of their session, suddenly made his skin crawl.

“How long...how long have you known it was me?”

And the more important, unspoken question: how long have you hated me and just kept stringing me along?

“I, uh,” Akira hesitated and Mishima could picture him fiddling with his bangs like he did every time he was nervous, “Had my suspicions since the very first session. You didn’t disguise your voice or anything and the name was close too. But I guess I didn’t know for sure until tonight. You called me Akira before the session began.”

The self-loathing slithering in Mishima’s belly grew more violent with each word Akira spoke. So he had known and hated him since the beginning. If only he hadn’t blurted out his name, he could’ve kept living in the pretty little lie for a bit longer. But he had screwed it up, like everything else.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Kurusu,” Mishima apologized, the words tumbling from his mouth in a torrent, “I won’t call again. I promise. A-And I won’t tell anyone either! So please, just...forget about this. Forget that we were ever friends in the first place. Please.”

The only sound Mishima heard was his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. He found himself praying to every god he could think of that Akira would let him down easy and leave it at that. A broken heart he could eventually heal from, but Akira using this as blackmail against him and instilling himself in the role of his new bully…

It was a fine line and all Mishima could do was wait for Akira’s response.

“I was masturbating to your voice just now too, you know.”

“H-Huh?”

That wasn’t what he expected to hear.

“I’ve actually been jerking off after our sessions every week. You have _no_ idea how hard it was to not do it while you were actually there, moaning like crazy in my ear. If it ever felt like I was rushing you out of a session, it’s because I was because the boner you gave me was driving me crazy.”

_Definitely_ not what he expected to hear.

“Y-You’re just making stuff up, right?” Mishima said slowly, wonderingly, his thoughts scattering in twenty thousand directions all at once, “You would’ve had the same reaction to anyone, right?”

“I’ve had clients besides you. None of them have affected me like you have, Yuuki.”

Words suddenly felt impossible as he stared dazedly at a very particular speck of nothing. He expected his body to flush with embarrassment - after all, this was some kind of weird, post phone sex confession from the boy he had been crushing on for months, wasn’t it? - but all he felt was disbelief. He had to be asleep. This had to be some fever dream because the orgasm was so intense or something.

“And, well, I…” the sound of Akira speaking again pulled Mishima from his thoughts, “I guess this is kind of backwards considering we’ve been getting one another off for months now, but I, uh, also meant the other part. The, y’know, I love you part. And if you meant it...when you said you love me, do you want to...go for coffee or something sometime? Maybe?”

This time it was Mishima’s turn to answer with silence as he stared at his cellphone as if he had never seen it before. Suddenly, he felt laughter bubbling to his lips. Within a matter of seconds he was laughing uncontrollably, doubling over as he clutched at his sides, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Each laugh brought a different feeling tumbling out - relief, disbelief, embarrassment - but each was tinged with a singular question.

What the actual hell?

Had he seriously been kind of unknowingly mutually masturbating with his crush for months now? Did he really just call a sex line and end up receiving a confession? Akira could admit that he had been masturbating to his voice so casually, almost flippantly, but as soon as he asked him on a date, he became a stuttering mess?

“Okay. Laughter,” Akira finally said after it was clear that Mishima wouldn’t be stopping any time soon, “Good laughter? ‘Yes, let’s go get coffee together sometime’ laughter?”

It took Mishima at least another solid minute before he gained control of himself enough to give a response. Had this been a normal confession, he was sure he would’ve been plagued with doubts and insecurities. However, as he finally picked up his phone and took the call off speaker, he found himself grinning and answering with unusual confidence.

“Yeah, I think that would be nice, Akira.”

 


End file.
